Gilbert ran his fingers along the dusty frame- the black, rough around the edges wooden frame which held a picture to last through the ages. A picture of him and his brother, smiling. Of him smiling before the wars and occupations and dissolution tore him apart and left him to rot. It was, truly, the only picture he could look at and cry. No tears would fall today, no tears to hit the carpet and dissolve just as he had so very many decades ago. He promised he wouldn't cry, as he brought the picture down to pack into a box, never to see again. Along with this frame, he tucked in a simple Deutschmark. Old and whethered, it was the only thing he had on him when Russia released him. He'd kept it to remember what he used to be. What he never wanted to go back to.

"Forgetting." He lifted the box in his arms, cardboard and covered in tape, everything he was and had been and would never be again. 'Prussia', was written along the top of the box. He'd long since stopped calling himself that, at least within his own mind. He'd long since abandoned the hope of returning to that and aknowledged the fact that that life was over for him. That life was over and done with and nothing could change that. But even though, he still felt real, he felt like the world was a part of him and he was a part of the world and everyone was a part of everyone but he realized that that tie was severed long ago. The remains stayed and fermented and wished and hoped but never again would he be a part of what his brother, his friends, what they all were a part of.

He wanted to be.

He wanted to exist.

He wanted to feel and know and experience and touch and own and.. live the way he used to.

He couldn't, though. None of those things were within his grasp and he realized that the world was no longer his and nothing was right and it was all gone.

All gone.